


An Imbalance of the Humors

by Anonymous



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anguished Declarations of Love, Cole just wants to help, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Historical Medical Theories, It's Always Easier When Somebody is Unconscious, M/M, POV Alternating, Prejudice is a Bitch, Self-Hatred, Some Medical Stuff, Some References to Parental Abuse, Templars, The Four Humors, Trauma, but not in a sexy way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 06:53:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4909582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a kink meme prompt:</p><p>Southern Thedas is deeply suspicious of anything blood related and that's left them woefully behind the times in terms of medical advances.</p><p>Which is deeply unfortunate because the Inquisitor was just brought back to Skyhold badly injured and desperately needing a blood transfusion. Dorian is horrified to find out that, with the courtyard surgeon away, the treatment plan is basically 'ply him with elf root and pray the Maker will save him.' Cue Dorian saying 'fuck this' barricading himself in with the Inquisitor and giving him a transfusion himself. It just sucks that this happened now, when he was so close to convincing the inquisition forces that not all Tevinter mages are blood mages.</p><p>The Inquisitor wakes to find out that Dorian has been dragged out, silenced, beaten and is awaiting judgement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

It was for good reason that blood magic was so deeply feared. Dorian knew that as well as any southener, more than that. To these southern barbarians, bloodmagic was a monster hiding beneath the bed, shifting, changing, twisted as an abomination, corrupting as a demon, and as evil as the archdemons themselves.

 

Dorian knew that truth was so much worse than that.

 

Blood was more than just a warm red liquid that came out when prodded hard enough. Blood was the font of life itself. Lifeblood, within and without, held the power over flesh, heart and soul. Could, harm, heal and enthral. But, bloodmagic was not so kind as to stay, cowering under the bed, colouring templars nightmares. It was subtle, seeping in through poisoned wine, killing quietly in the night, because oh, he was old and always had such a frail heart you know, or it could hide behind loving caresses, torrid nights, and biting kisses, tainting so slowly, by the time it could be known the poor soul was all but enthralled already.

 

Or it could come suddenly, his father above him, slaves bleeding to their death about him, the glyphs bright as stars as they held him captive in the circle, but for a kind gust of wind and an ill secured window, scattering the salt, he would not have escaped.

 

Dorian knew blood magic. Feared it as deeply as any southern idiot, but he swears, if he hears about it one more time, he is going to choke somebody.

 

“There is _nothing_ more to be done, the Herald is in the makers hands now,” the templar growled, swelling to his full height, his arms crossed against his silverite breastplate.

 

Lavellan, was so small in the bed, his skin so pale that his vassaslin seemed to glow and writhe against his cheeks, wet ink swimming across parchment thin skin, his breaths shallow and fluttering, and Dorian knew from the brush of his hand that his heart was racing just from the effort of staying alive. A pride demon had tried to take his arm, a final attempt to save itself as he had closed the breach around it, it’s claws raking across the fragile latice of veins at his elbow, and dragging upward to his wrist, raking across the heel of his palm. It was not a deep scratch, but it was enough, the blood had poured from him like a sick fountain, and it had taken them too long to quell the bleeding. There had been so much blood, Dorian hadn’t seen so much of it since the ritual, and Lavellan was an elf, immense in spirit, but small in flesh, he only had so much lifeblood in him, and so much of it had spilled across the blasted floor. The anchor, the divine mark that had gathered them all together, seemed to throb with his fluttering heartbeat, growing slower by the minute.

 

He was dying. Dorian knew that, had seen it first hand, he’d let it happen to those poor slaves. It had been his fault, they had died for him, for Halward’s sick ritual.

 

He would not let it happen again.

 

“And I suppose Andraste herself shall burst from the breach and heal him. Herald or not, he is dying you fool, will you not just do something!”

 

“There is _nothing_ to be done,” he said, and stepped toward him, looming and forboding, snarling down at him like he was some insignificant child throwing a foolish tantrum, not a full grown Altus bargaining for their Herald’s life.

 

Blast this wilderness, blast the demon, blast that this happen here when they were surrounded by no one but _Templars_. At skyhold their healers would have cut this blasted fool down in minutes, even the bloody reverend mother would have had him dragged out on his ear, and had Lavellan on the mend under the spirit healers hands. But he was too weak to be moved from their borrowed lodgings, a blasted templar barracks of all places. That left just him, Cole whom was both hiding from the Templars and tending the wounded, in his own strange way, and Cassandra, whom was about as useless as the templar in this situation, though she at least knew to keep out of his blasted way.

 

“Nothing more to be done? I suppose back water ruffian would rather just sit and twiddle your thumbs as he dies. Tell me this, do have you any magebane?”

 

The templars scowl faltered, and he opened his mouth.

 

“Ye-“

 

“Then fetch it you fool, there is no time to waste with your posturing. There is much that can be done, and much that _will_ be done, if you want the herald to live,” he said, elbowing past the stunned templar.

 

The Templar, spluttered, incensed, but clattered off all the same. Dorian sighed, but the gambit had not paid off yet, and he only had a few minutes.

 

The room he had been placed in was little more than a cell, if the cell of a monk, rather than any prisoner, but still, a cell. The walls were stone, the furniture unadorned oak, the flagstone floor chilly, despite the fire burning in the hearth, windows high and narrow.

 

Mahanon seemed small in the bed, even if it was a rather narrow for a human, swallowed up in the woollen blankets and bearskin cloaks he’d been swaddled in for the shock. He shivered, despite all. It made his heart, his wretched fool heart tremble, but he had no time to wring his hands.

 

He kept a several thin sticks of chalk in his belt. Not just any chalk though, it was a glyph etchers chalk, silverite and salt of the wastes was ground to a find powder, and encased by the chalky pigment. The glyphs drawn with would be weak and not hold for very long, but there was nothing better when a quick fortification was needed, or a quick get away. It was a lesson he’d learned the hard way, in his flight from tevinter. He quickly sketched a glyph of warding on the door, and a second glyph of repulsion, and further, tertiary runes of protection and resilience around the doorframe. They were rushed and sputtered against irregular surface of the wood, but they held as he poured his magic into them.

 

It would have to do.

 

The Templar returned a moment later, a ceramic flask in his hands. Dorian placed himself in the doorway, his legs wide, should the fool Templar try to pass him, and snatched the pot from his hands. He cracked the wax seal and pulled off the stopper, letting it drop and shatter against the floor, uncaring of the Templars enraged snarl, and swirled the contents quickly. It was far were fresher than he’d like, more potent than he’d hoped. He would be feeling this in the morning, of that he had no doubt.

 

He steeled his spine, and brought the flask to his lips, gulping it down in four harsh swallows, then letting the flask slip from his finger and shatter against the flagstones.

 

“Thankyou, now, I can get to work. Do try not to kick up a fuss as I save Lavellan from certain death,” he said, and slammed the door in the sputtering templar’s face, his glyphs flaring to life as the templar grabbed at the handle. Dorian locked it, drawing the iron bolts into place, and threw the key into the fire.

 

The magebane didn’t hurt, like he thought it might. It was intensely unpleasant, but it was not the same pain of a spell purge, but rather, a strange, lurching sensation of being emptied. His manna running away from him, out of him, like water through a crack, leaving him hollowed out and trembling, the void of it gnawing at the pit of his stomach.

 

He shook his hands, clenching his fingers into fists to quell their shaking, and got to work.

 

The magebane had been more of a comfort to him, than for anyone else. Bloodmagic was a siren as sure as any demon, he’d seen children, good children, grow up to become caricatures of themselves, evil tevinter magisters enraptured by it’s power, and Dorian couldn’t bear the thought of becoming like them. Better to handle this without magic at all, there could be no temptation without it, no corruption, just the lifeblood Mahanon so desperately needed.

 

The Templars had indirectly supplied him with all he needed, a needles for the occupants lyrium infusion, a thin length of cleaned catgut from the stitching kit, and a lengths of linen bandages for the tourniquet.

 

He had done this, once, for his Father. Halward had been attacked by a would be assassin, an arrow had pierced his thigh, bleeding him. Aquilius, their family’s most trusted slave, healer and record keeper both, had sat him by his fathers bedside, and drawn the lifeblood from him, into his fathers veins.

 

“The humors are intrinsic to who we are. They must be balanced, too much of phlegm and your lungs shall fill, and pneumonia take you, too little and you shall die of thirst, each breath fire, too much of choleric, and your gut shall fill with stones, too little, and your food shall rot in your gut. Sanguine is the same. Too little, and the heart shall falter, and fail. Blood begets blood, life begets life, as your father gave unto you, you shall give unto him, and make him whole again,” he had told him, his voiced hushed, but heavy, carrying the air of ritual.

 

“And too much sanguine?” he said, light headed from the bleeding, but not so much that his natural curiosity had fled him.

 

Aquilius’ face darkened, becoming grave.

 

“There is no such thing as too much sanguine. It is your lifeblood, that which fuels you, feeds you, makes you whole. You possess as much as your heart will beget you, no less, never less. Should someone ascribe you a bleeding, then turn away, and quickly. They are but blood mages, preying on common ignorance, seeking fools to bleed for their rituals.”

 

Dorian had taken the lesson to heart, and never forgotten. How could he? His own blood had been used in that ritual. And there was only one way Halward could have claimed it from him.

 

He shed his loose sleeve, and tightened a band of linen around his upper arm, clenching his fist till his veins bulged, and knelt at Mahanon’s side. He gently freed his right arm from the swaddled blankets, and laid it down atop the bundled fabric.

 

He pierced himself first, let the blood flow, through the length of the gut for a moment, clearing the air away, till it spurted from the tip of the needle, then, kinked the thin tube, and pierced the needle home, and released it.

 

“Blood begets blood, life, begets life,” he whispered, half in memory, half in prayer. He didn’t even know if this would work. Not with an elf. But he had to try, he couldn’t just do _nothing_. Surely lifeblood willingly given was just as good as any other. He could only hope. Pray, and hope, and _hope_.

 

The Templers were bashing at the door now, the repulsion rune had burnt itself out, the chalk cracking and flaking away from the wood, leaving the warding runes to take the weight of the Templar’s pounding upon it, the hinges rattling, but holding strong all the same.

 

“I do not know if this will work. I don’t even know if it will matter, but, you are worth any price, Mahanon,” he whispered, He felt a little dizzy and the catgut was unsettlingly warm against his arm. He leaned into the mattress, steadying himself.

 

“They’ll think me a bloodmage for this, you know. The terrible tevinter magister, locked up in a room with the helpless Herald, a gash in his arm. I daresay I’ll be sporting a brand by morning,” he said, glib, but his heart was racing all the same, sweat on his brow for the fear.

 

Good. The quicker his heart beat, the swifter Mahanon would get what he needed. Nevermind the Templars pounding at the door.

 

“And I do so dislike tattoos. Not to take it personally, dear friend, they do suit you so well, but this profile of mine is simply too perfect, any more adornments would ruin it. And lyrium blue is not my colour,” he sighed, settling down to sit on his backside. The dizziness was getting worse, but Mahanon’s cheeks still bore no colour but that of his vallaslin, his eyes were sallow, and his heart still fluttered worryingly quickly. He did not know when to stop, did not know how much was enough, so he kept giving.

 

“I suppose I may not again get an opportunity to tell you this, at least, not while you’re being so terribly agreeable. But, I do like you, more that I should, certainly more than is wise, under the circumstances. I had hoped that things could be better than this, but, well, there is a very angry troupe of templar’s outside the door, whom are very angry with me at the moment. I’m uncertain if they’ll observe due process of things, not for the evil ‘Vint.”

 

“I was just making headway too. Solas, you know, we had an entire conversation without mentioning elves or slaves once. It was wonderful, and the blacksmith isn’t no longer offering a free spit shine boot polishing with every purchase. But, well, doesn’t matter now, what matter is that you pull through this alright.”

 

“I had hoped that, well, I hoped to amount to more than this. Hoped to do something, worthwhile, lasting. Not to say I’m giving up, but I doubt those chaps out there are interested in giving me a stern talking to, and leaving it at that. But if I achieved one thing, I saved you, or at least I bloody well hoped so. That’s at least one thing in this that’s right. Do try to make the best of it, no more of these silly brushes with death. I might not be able to save you next time around.”

 

He sighed, and gasped, he was crying. He didn’t want to cry, damn it all, but here he was crying like a child. He could get through this, would get through this if he could just explain himself, but the Templars would sooner kill him than offer a trial. He was a ‘Vint mage, not a real person, not as far as they were concerned. He watched as the warding glyph began to sizzle and pop, flakes of burning chalk scattering in all directions. The templars had found a battering ram. He had a few minutes more, at best.

 

“Worrying, the kiss of the lyrium brand, no more magic, no more love, no more fear, no more Dorian. Why does it always have to be blood?”

 

Dorian wheeled around, the room spinning, to find Cole perched atop the mantle, his expression hidden beneath his hat, his head cocked to one side.

 

“Cole, you need to get out of here, quickly, there is not much time.”

 

“But you hurt, I want to help. The Templars at the door, evil apostate at work, perverting, enthralling. The Herald must be kept pure. They want to hurt you.”

 

“You can help me but getting far away from here, and get Cassandra, tell her what’s happening. If they find me in here, bleeding all willy nilly, with a spirit and an unconscious Herald they will smite us all. You’re Mahanon’s friend aren’t you? It would hurt him if you were hurt.”

 

“The seeker, the seeker will understand, romantic heart, secret feelings, she will know the sacrifice for what it is. Forbidden love, secret love. Help hiding as secret magic. Yes, yes I’ll go. Good luck Dorian,” He said, Dorian blinked, and he was gone as if he’d never been there at all.

 

The last of his glyph was burning away. He was sweating all over, his dizziness terrible, he pinched the catgut with trembling fingers. He bandaged Mahanon’s arm first, he’d lost too much already, he couldn’t afford to loose any more. His own next, his blood splattering down his arm as he fumbled with the bandage.

 

The glyph crumbled, the magic burning to nothing, and the Templars broke in with a roar, the smite washing over him, through him, it hurt, but it hurt in all the strangest ways, now there was no magic left in him to expunge. A pommel came down, striking across his brow, and he knew no more.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Cassandra sighed, deeply, wishing nothing more than to sink into the flagstones and be done with it. Cole, had not left her side since Dorina had been shackled and placed in his cell, and though she could understand his agitation, she could not stand much more of his hand wringing.

 

“But he was only helping! Lying so still, so quiet, entombed in the furs, heartbeat too quick, skin thin, frail like paper, no life to colour his cheeks pink. Something must be done or he shall not see the morning,” Cole recited, digging the thoughts out from Dorian’s skull. It was eerie, the way his cadence shifted and changed, adopting the tevinter’s particular inflection as he spoke his thought alloud.

 

“I know Cole, but it’s not that simple. No one wanted the Herald to die. But there are rules that we must follow, and some things cannot be so easily forgiven. Even if done with the purest of intentions, blood magic is evil, and to use it against one unable to defend themselves, is an evil unto itself, perhaps one even greater than the first,” she said, though, she knew it was a lost cause. Cole was like a child, unable to look past intent and to effect, risk, and consequence, he did not understand. He was not sure if he was even able to.

 

“But it wasn’t bloodmagic! Blood, Sanguine, one of the four, greatest of them all, lifeblood, courage, hope, lust for living, I shall return that which was taken and make him whole again. Better he lives and they hate, than die and be alone,” Cole utterd.

 

“That, he knew this would happen, didn’t he?”

 

“Templars, the kiss of the lyrium, magebane gnawing at his insides, I shall feel this tomorrow, should I feel tomorrow at all. It is worth it, he is worth it. He is courage, laughter, hope. None is more worthy. He wanted to help Cassandra, but the Templar wouldn’t let him, and I left him alone because staying would hurt, but now he hurts anyway,” Cole burying his head in his hands, his shoulders trembling.

 

“Cole, please, it’s not your fault. You don’t understand these things, you can’t. It is different, for people,” she said, though, consolations had never been her strong suit, this conversation had been spinning in circles for a while now, and nothing she said seemed to piece through his distress.

 

“But I’ve just hurt everyone again. Why can I never help like I mean to?” Cole wailed.

 

“It’s, a complicated thing, Cole. It’s not your fault. The blame lies with Dorian’s actions, not with anyones heart,” she said.

 

“But he was only helping!”

 

“I know Cole. But sometimes, that just isn’t enough.”

 

That was precisely the wrong thing to say. Cole seemed to shrink in on himself, a strange wheeze escaping his throat, and with a blink, he was gone.

 

Cassandra sighed, and rocked back onto the borrowed desk, her head in her hands. This, this was not her sort of day. When Cole had come to her, wide eyed and full of fear and anger both, babbling endlessly that “Magic that is not magic, help that hurts and heals, the templars do not see, do not hear, they want to hurt him,” Cassandra had assumed the worst. That Dorian had finally bitten off more than he could chew in his grief for Mahanon, that the templars had taken a swipe at him, that Mahanon had taken a turn for the worst, but, she didn’t think that she would find Dorian, in a crumpled head on the ground, blood welling from his wounds and magic crackling in the air. Not in a hundred ages, would she have expected that.

 

Dorian, had succumbed, had become a malificar. She couldn’t wrap her head around it. Dorian, who had run ahead of an army of Venatori, to warn them of Coryphaeus’ coming. Dorian whom had saved their Heralds life time and time again. Dorian who played chess in the courtyard with Cullen, one of the few things that could make the man take time away from his desk these days, Dorian, who despite all the disdainful looks, all the distrust, all the mistreatment, kept his head held high, and continued sank almost every waking hour into research, training and field work for the inquisition.

 

Cassandra was not a woman who trusted quickly, nor was she a woman who considered herself particularly prone to attachment, but, she had trusted Dorian, admired him half as much as she wished she could wipe that smug grin off his face. But this, well.

 

She had never been so unhappy at having her suspicions proved right.

 

“The brand, blue light shining, erasing, enrapturing, Cassandra, please they’re going to hurt him again!” Cole was crouching on her desk, suddenly clasping him by her pauldrons and pulling her up.

 

“Hurt who, the Inquisitor?”

 

“No, the mage, he is an abomination, a magister, a malificar, a sin against the Andraste and the Maker, he must be snuffed out before it is too late, Cassandra please, you are the seeker, you can stop it, you can help!”

 

Cassandra knew that inflection, the stony, booming tone belonged to the unpleasant Templar, the one who had pommeled Dorian down, and dosed him with Magebane. But if Cole had mentioned a light then that could only mean one thing, the brand. All templar compounds had one, it was considered a necessary piece of equipment for the safe imprisonment, of dangerous bloodmages. And, well, as of right now, Dorian was a dangerous bloodmage.

 

“Come, quickly!” she said, jumping to her feet and clasping sword and shield both as she took off down the hall toward the dungeon, Cole dogging at her heels, his every footfall silent, but she could see his knives flashing in the light.

 

The guards she had posted at the entrance were not at their posts, facing in toward the cells, but were facing outward, watching for _interruptions_ , no doubt. The first baulked in fear, leaping out of her way, the other was not so quick thinking. He raised his hand, as if to stop her, but Cassandra merely put her shoulder to her shield and shoved, and he clattered against the wall like a insect crushed beneath her heel. Pathetic, truly, for a trained templar to be felled so easily, but she was not about to stop and begin a lecture.

 

The Templar startled, and Cassandra took in the scene she had barged in on with a growing sense of Dread. Dorian was conscious, though barely, and had been removed from his cell, where the Knight Commander stood over him, the sunburst brand clenched in his hand. She looked to Dorian, but to her immense relief, found that his expression was one of fear, rather than lax, placidity, and his forehead was unmarked.

 

“Enough of this, Maker take you what are you doing?” she snarled. Cole fluttered through her peripheral vision, creeping around the outer wall.

 

“I am delivering the makers justice to this _malificar,”_ the templar sneered, caught halfway between boasting and righteous fury. He pointed with the brand, like it was a bloody fire poker and not a tool capable of wiping a persons soul clean. Cole kept creeping, and she moved, keeping step with the Templar, hoping to put herself between him and Dorian.

 

The Templar snarled, a twisted, ugly expression, and answered her unspoken challenge by stepping toward her.

 

Cassandra snarled, her face twisting into a disgusted grimace, and she backhanded the bastard, wiping the ugly expression from his face with the force of her gauntleted hand. The idiot had, literally walked right into range of that.

 

“And who appointed you judge, jury and executioner? Certainly not the Herald, and clearly not the inquisition. You cannot truly believe that this rampant abuse of power is worthy of Andraste’s Herald? Worthy of the Chantry you swore your oaths to? Worthy of Andraste and the Maker? You disgust me,” she grunted, and Cole dove, then, tackling him from behind and wresting the lyrium brand from his grip. Cassandra kicked him while he was down, just a little, to make herself feel better.

 

“Do not think the inquisition will allow this perversion of justice to go unpunished-“

 

“ _Perversion_ , why-“ The templar stuttered, crawling up off the floor, and groping for the brand. Cole must have made him forget he had taken it.

 

Cassandra raised her hand, and glared.

 

“I do not want to hear it. Now get out of my sight. If I see you down here again, you will beg for tranquillity when I’m through with you,” she snarled.

 

The templar faltered, his arrogance folding at last to self-preservation, and he scarpered, his tail tucked between his legs like the cur he was.

 

Cassandra sighed, and looked down at the brand, the blue light of it reflecting against the scales of her armour like a twisted chandelier. Cole was holding it as far from his body as he could, his lip curled in disgust. She relieved him of it, and dropped it to the floor with a grunt of disgust.

 

She turned, and for the first time, she saw the state Dorian was in. He had been placed in a set of rune inlaid stocks, cedar and silverite, laced with suppressing runes, so alive with absorbed magic they crackled. The Herald had been placed in such a pair, at first. If his magic held no chance of escape, then Dorian’s certainly did not. His face, usually so impeccably groomed, was one great bruise, one eye had swollen shut entirely, the other was ringed with purple, bloodshot and swollen half shut. He had a cut on his brow, another on his lip, and a large patch of his hair looked to have been torn out at the root, leaving a bloodied patch of scalp behind. His moustache was sticking out at odd angles, the remnants of yesterdays wax had made it look bristly like a mouse’s whiskers.

 

His injured arm had not been treated kindly, blood had seeped through the bandage and stained his fine white coat. She doubted it would be salvageable, now that it’s preservation enchantments had been so thoroughly nullified by the repeated silencing, spell purges, and holy smites. Even with magic, the bloodstain was unlikely to ever come out. It had been left to set for too long.

 

“I am sorry, that that happened. I shall take you back to your cell, and reassign your guards myself. This behaviour is unworthy of the inquisition,” she said, hesitating for a moment, before she kneeled down, and pulled the metal stake holding Dorians manacles to the floor. It easily weighed a good twenty pounds, but it was little burden to her. Dorian got to his feet shakily, trembling like a newborn lamb.

 

She lead him back to his cell, and replaced the stake into it’s keeper, then turned to him, and gingerly pulled the rag from his mouth.

 

“Do you, do you require any medical attention? Sustenance?”

 

“Oh, no, I feel absolutely dandy. However, a decent set of drapes would do wonders for this place. I’m imagining a nice red myself, warm the place up a bit,” he said, his voice just shy of manic.

 

“Well, I don’t think that will go down well with the quartermaster, but I will arrange for some more blankets for you. It surprises me that you are so blaize about this, for all you’re insistence that you were not like the magisters of your homeland,”

 

“And I am not, look, if you would just listen to me-”

 

“I have heard enough, I think. We, understand why, Dorian. We just wish it were not so. Even I, well, it is of no matter now. What that sorry excuse for a templar tried, it was not sanctioned. You will have a trial Dorian, you may say your piece then. That, you deserve. But until then, I do not wish to hear your justifications.” She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Steady. Do not scream. Do not hit the defenceless mage. Do not hit yourself for believing in him.

 

“I shall have blankets sent down to you, and elfroot balm for your face. Goodbye, Dorian.”

 

“No, wait. Please.”

 

Cassandra paused, despite all her instincts screaming at her to get out and destroy something. Dorian, sounded so broken, on the edge of tears, the edge of breaking down. After having that lyrium brand, well, brandished at him, Cassandra felt she could forgive him for that much. She looked over her shoulder toward him, one arm on the pommel of her sword, the other on the door to his cell, just in case. He looked up at her, a trembling, wretched shadow of the once proud, regal altus.

 

“Maha- the Herald. Is, is he alright? Did he last the night? I, I was afraid that-“

 

“He lives. He rests still, but he grows haler by the day. Take what ever satisfaction from it that you will.”

 

Dorian shut his eyes, and uttered something in Tevene, his utterance reverent and lilting like a prayer, and all at once, it was as if the weight of his chains had become nothing at all, and Dorian was himself again. Cassandra shut the cell door on the sound, and squeezed her eyes shut.

 

Damn her wretch heart and it’s love of useless, frivolous courtly rubbish, but she felt sympathy for him. His hands were dirty, but his soul, his heart, were still good and true. He, loved the Herald, more than that, he was _in_ love with the Herald. Loved him enough to break his own morals, dirty his hands to keep the Herald’s clean. By the maker, how had she missed it? It was as ostentatious and obvious as one of Varric’s smutty books.

 

She needed to hit something, now. Or she might go and do something incredibly stupid. It was one thing to feel sympathy, but she was not in a position to begin, empathising with him, romanticizing his actions. It was not right. Bloodmagic, it could not be excused, could not be justified, even if done with purest of intentions. Even if done to save the life of the one you loved, at great risk to your own health, your own wellbeing.

 

Oh Maker damn it all. She was going to have a drink. Then hit something. Then burn every one of Varric’s blasted books till her heart sorted itself out.

 

“Cole, could you watch over Dorian for me? Inform me if there are any more attempts?”

 

“Yes, but, cheek stings like fire, shins ache, I am going to put that woman n her place if it’s the last thing I do, he wants to hurt you, why not put him in the cage?”

 

“Because, we, are already at a disadvantage here. The Knight Commander is in charge here, and with our Inquisitor unconscious, we are outnumbered and out equipped. We must make peace, at least until reinforcements arrive,” she said, sighing, and she bent to pick up the brand again. It would not do to just leave it lying about where that templar might be able to get at it again.

 

“Caging the wolf and all the world will echo with his howls, yes, that’s sensible,” he said, nodding.

 

“I’m glad you understand Cole,” she said, and turned.

 

“I almost believed him, I wanted to believe in him. Betrayed and disappointed and angry all tangled and turned inward. It hurts her to see you laid so low. She did not want to be right,” Cole said softly. “I still believe.”

 

“Thankyou, Cole,” Dorian said, his voice so soft she almost could not hear it.

 

She pretended she couldn’t anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for this kink meme prompt:
> 
>  
> 
> _Southern Thedas is deeply suspicious of anything blood related and that's left them woefully behind the times in terms of medical advances._  
>  _Which is deeply unfortunate because the Inquisitor was just brought back to Skyhold badly injured and desperately needing a blood transfusion. Dorian is horrified to find out that, with the courtyard surgeon away, the treatment plan is basically 'ply him with elf root and pray the Maker will save him.' Cue Dorian saying 'fuck this' barricading himself in with the Inquisitor and giving him a transfusion himself. It just sucks that this happened now, when he was so close to convincing the inquisition forces that not all Tevinter mages are blood mages._  
>  _The Inquisitor wakes to find out that Dorian has been dragged out, silenced, beaten and is awaiting judgement._
> 
>  
> 
> I'll admit, I'm posting this through the anonymous collection because this was really rushed on my part. I'm supposed to be studying for my exam tomorrow, but this prompt took hold of me, so I sat down and churned this out in like, three, four hours. It's super unpolished and rough, I didn't even do any research, I don't even know where it's set, when it takes place in the cannon, I just wrote without really thinking about it, but it's not irredeemable. I want to clean this up and finish it off later on, but with everything I have on my plate right now, I know I'd chicken out, so I'm posting this, just so you'll have something, and you can all feel free to kick me up the arse when I put off finishing it. I hope you like it nonnys.


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